


Fire of Heaven

by trinityofone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-08
Updated: 2009-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after her run in with Azazel, Mary Winchester makes another deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire of Heaven

It takes her five years.

Five years of research, of books and papers she collects and reads in secret. She doesn’t like lying to John, or hiding things from him, but this isn’t safe, what she knows, what she’s doing. Her husband is such an innocent. She wants to keep him that way.

So for five years she hunts, a different kind of hunt: one without guns or salt or silver knives; one that results (at least so far) in no injury worse than a paper cut. For five years she sweats over this, long nights of sneaking out of bed and reading till her eyes ache. And then, when she has a breakthrough, more nights of practice, going over and over the symbols, the incantation, until she knows them backward and forward, until she’s _certain_ she can get this right.

Five years, and then finally, she’s ready.

That yellow-eyed bastard has another thing coming if he thinks Mary Campbell is going down without a fight.

* * *

Castiel has only seen his brother Michael a half-dozen times over the course of their very long lives. Only once have they interacted face-to-face: Michael was visiting the garrison, and he approached Castiel’s position with Anael at his side. Castiel bowed his head, even as Anael addressed him: “I was just telling Michael that it was your plan that ensured the successful defense of the eastern gate.”

When Castiel looked up, all of Michael’s eyes were on him. Castiel had never felt a stare so intense.

“Very good,” the archangel said. And then he moved along.

Since then, as before, Castiel only caught the occasional glimpse of his brother: always with his back turned, standing far away, apart and above. Wings folded in massive arcs down his back. Silent and distant and cold.

Castiel knows that Michael may be the only one capable of saving them. He still can’t say that he much looks forward to meeting him again.

* * *

This is how Dean finally says yes:

Zachariah lays it out for him, very simply. For once he doesn’t threaten, just simply states the facts that Dean knows to be true. They are in the Hollywood Hills, beneath the large white letters of that dorky sign, and below them are thirteen million people. Thirteen million people who are all going to die at the hands of some jackass minion of Lucifer’s if Dean doesn’t let Michael slip inside and take his body out for a spin, never mind that he’s likely to be hell on the upholstery.

“Thirteen million lives versus your pathetic little existence,” Zachariah says. “Are you really that selfish?”

“I don’t see you boldly charging into the fray,” Dean snaps, watching Zachariah lazily pace beneath a giant letter Y.

Zachariah stops and shakes his head. “That’s because I’m not _suicidal_. I know Michael’s the only one who can handle a demon of Astaroth’s power. Not to mention Lucifer’s. And that’s next, Dean.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and lifts his chin thoughtfully. “This isn’t some hypothetical future. This is right here and now. Imagine letting thirteen million people perish and then later having to consent, knowing you could have saved them. _All_ of them,” Zachariah adds, “including the traitor and your brother.”

Dean would like to tell himself that it’s the thirteen million that sways him, not the two. But he looks down at the twinkling bowl of lights beneath them, and there are only two faces he sees in his mind when he closes his eyes. When he grits his teeth and grinds out, “All right. _Yes_.”

* * *

Yes. It’s time.

Mary heads off to work, then loops back to the house once she’s sure John has left for the shop. It almost makes her feel like a teenager again, playing the truant. But her seriousness of purpose overrides any feelings of nostalgia. She goes into the garage and draws the symbols she’s practiced and practiced into the empty space left by John’s damn car. She’s ready. It’s time.

She takes it slow: the blood, the bowl, the incantation. The oil and the flame. Then she steps back, fighting to keep her breathing even, and waits.

When the light comes, it’s almost blinding. Mary feels her eyes watering but forces herself not to blink.

“You are very lucky,” the thing says in a voice that makes her skull rattle, “that you were not annihilated the moment I appeared.”

Mary takes a deep breath; she holds firm. “That’s a chance I was willing to take.”

The thing looks at her. She can feel it looking, even though she cannot see its eyes.

“What do you want?”

The look on Mary’s face is something like a smile. Smiling, she says, “I want to make a deal.”

* * *

Nothing happens.

Dean’s braced for it—for Michael hopping on board. He has no idea what it will be like, as he’s never seen an angel actually take a vessel. Not pleasant, he has to assume. Jimmy had said something about a bright, bright light, but Dean’s seen enough to know that Castiel’s on the gentle, caring-and-sharing end of the angel spectrum. Michael won’t be like that.

Michael will be…

…Freakin’ tardy, apparently.

Dean looks over at Zachariah, who’s watching him wide-eyed and expectant, almost worshipful already. “Uh, aren’t we on a schedule here? Your guy’s not very punctual.”

Something like fear, like doubt, creeps onto Zachariah’s moonstruck face.

Dean’s heart is racing, the tight knot of fear uncoiling in his belly, unraveling into something like giddiness. He looks up at the night sky. “Hello? Michael? I went to all this trouble to throw you a party. Don’t leave me sitting by the phone all night.” He glances back at Zachariah, cheeks aching from the strength of his grin. “Looks like he stood me up.”

Zachariah continues to gape. Dean feels the grips of the two minion angels who’ve been holding him go slack. He steps forward, snaps his fingers in Zachariah’s dazed face. “You still in there? Good. You’re gonna have to face facts: your general’s AWOL, dude.”

He laughs and spins around. He hadn’t realized it before, but it’s _beautiful_ up here. The hillside smells great, like sumac and mint. The city twinkles below him like a valley full of stars. It’s _awesome_ —in the Castiel-approved sense of the word.

Which reminds him. He turns on his toes back to Zachariah, who’s still imitating a fat overgrown fish. “Well, this has been _fun_ ,” he says, “but as you so recently delighted in informing me, there are thirteen million people who could kind of use our help right now.”

The angels continue to more closely resemble angel statues. Dean rolls his eyes. He spies the cloth-wrapped spear that Zachariah, for some reason, had carefully laid out on the ground, and snatches it up. He hefts it; the weight is reassuring in his hand. “Well?” he demands, and Zachariah actually wibbles. “Zap me down there already. I’ll take care of this myself.”

Zachariah’s expression is penitent, his head bent like a remorseful man as he presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead.

* * *

Mary’s going to have a headache later. “A deal,” the creature she’s summoned repeats, the words ripping through her. “You have the audacity to seek a deal with _us_?”

Mary doesn’t need to steel herself; she’s been cold iron ever since that May night five years ago. “Well, you’re certainly not stepping in to help us on your own. I thought I’d offer some incentive.”

“What could you possibly have to offer me?”

Mary shakes her head in disgust. “Do you even know what’s going on down here? There’s a powerful demon on the loose—not some snare for idiots at crossroads, something _different_. He certainly doesn’t have any problem making deals.”

“Yes,” the thing says, its tone almost dry, “I can see his mark on you.”

Mary ignores this, fights past it, because it’s the only thing she can do. “A lot more’s at stake than just a few human souls,” she says, as levelly as she can. “Don’t you care about what he’s doing?”

There’s a pause. “We are…aware of his activities.”

“And don’t you want to _stop_ him?”

Another silence. This one a little too long.

“You’re kidding me,” Mary says. Her fists clench; she can feel the tears pricking at her eyes, but she is not going to cry, not now. Not ever again. “How can you be so cold?”

It doesn’t answer her.

“All right,” she says, and extinguishes the line that’s holding it here. “I’m done with you.”

It doesn’t leave, and for a moment Mary fears retribution. But then she remembers that there’s no point in fearing that.

“You’re done?” it asks.

“With _you_ ,” Mary spits. “There are plenty of other entities for me to try. I haven’t even started on the pagans yet. And I still have so much to offer. Hell,” she says, and her grin is almost hysterical, the closest thing to a crack in her façade, “believe it or not, I even still have my _soul_.”

She turns around, to emphasize how through with it she is, and immediately she feels it come up behind her, like a gust of warm wind, like energy and light.

“I can tell you something you do not have. Something you can never have.”

As Mary stands there, controlling her breathing, it lays something like a hand gently against her stomach.

* * *

Castiel is aware of his wounds, but he chooses to ignore them. The most important thing—the only important thing, at the moment—is that he keep Sam Winchester safe. Until Astaroth secures Sam, he won’t dare bring down the destruction he surely has planned for this city. Lucifer needs Sam, and thus Astaroth needs to ensure Sam comes to no lasting harm. Which means, Castiel thinks, hearing Dean’s voice in his head, Cas just needs to make sure that Astaroth stays the hell away from his brother.

This is of course made more difficult by the fact that they are trapped inside the stage for some television show Sam has assured him he doesn’t watch, with a dozen or more lesser demons, as well as Astaroth himself, on their tail. And Dean is missing.

Castiel half-leads, half-follows Sam around a series of backdrops, then catches his arm and stops him from nearly tumbling backward into what appears to be an actual swimming pool. It is covered by a tarp, but Castiel can see drops of water beading over the surface. Sam flushes at his near-mistake, then takes Castiel by the arm again and leads him to crouch—somewhat farcically, Castiel reflects—behind a potted palm.

“Any chance of the apparation coming back on?” Sam asks in a low voice.

Castiel shakes his head. Like many things, moving from place to place as he used to has become harder and harder lately. And now, with his wounds… When he tried earlier, he gave Sam nothing but a smudge of blood on his forehead.

“Maybe the stage is warded,” Sam suggests, kindly. And Castiel nods, because he would like to believe that.

He’d like to believe anything besides the truth: that he is not strong enough, that he has never been strong enough. The rate at which he’s slipping toward mortality only emphasizes that he has always been too human by half.

And half of him—that traitorous half—doesn’t even care. Because Dean is wholly, utterly, wonderfully human, and when Castiel is with him, his objections to that particular metaphysical state evaporate almost entirely.

But Dean is not currently with him— _he doesn’t know where Dean is_ —and right now, Castiel would give anything to be at full angelic strength. Because above the sound of Sam breathing beside him, he hears a low, oily chuckle, and as the Klieg lights flick on above them, he sees Astaroth step out onto the patio set like he owns the place.

He gets about three feet before there’s the sound of metal and wood penetrating flesh and Astaroth stumbles forward, the point of a spear sticking out of his chest. His eyes flare a white-hot orange before going dark; the body tumbles forward into the pool, hitting the tarp with a wet smack and dragging it down. Sam lets out a startled, relieved laugh, but Castiel cannot rejoice, because he sees the hand holding the spear— _the_ spear—and he sees the man attached to it, the man he knows must be a man no longer. His head is bent, admiring his handiwork, and Castiel braces himself for the moment when he looks up, when Castiel will have to see a veritable stranger looking out at him through Dean’s eyes.

The green eyes flash up. They are accompanied by a wide grin. “Did you see that, Sammy? There’s another one we can cross off our list—spears! What do we have left? Did you ever get to use that flail? Or maybe a morning star? What do you think, Cas—a morning star to take out the Morningstar? That would be poetic, right?”

Castiel stares at him, watches as his grin slowly folds and falls. “Cas? Are you all right?”

“A demon got him with a scythe,” Sam says, flinching sympathetically. “We were totally surrounded. I gotta say—that was some nice timing, Dean.”

“Wasn’t it? Didn’t even give him a chance to monologue.” His face shines with another brief grin, before flattening again into a worried frown. He reaches forward, clearly trying to get a look at the wound in Castiel’s side. Castiel shies away.

This earns him an eye roll. “I know it’ll heal eventually, but at least let us stop the bleeding. You’re making some crappy soap look _way_ more exciting than it actually is.” He takes a second to glance around at the set. “What _is_ this, anyway?”

Sam mutters something.

Dean barks a laugh. “ _Melrose Place_? That shitty CW show? Oh man.” He rips off a strip of his t-shirt and presses it to Castiel’s side, his hands reassuring and warm. “Sam totally has a crush on that blonde girl,” he confides.

“I do _not_.”

“He totally does,” Dean says with a sad shake of his head, and Castiel can’t help himself from reaching up and pressing a hand to his cheek. Dean stiffens a little, but he doesn’t pull away. “Cas?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, wondrously. “Dean.”

“Don’t look at me like you’re seeing a ghost, Cas, it’s freaking me out.”

So Castiel closes his eyes and kisses him instead, tastes the soft spiciness of his mouth. Dean kisses him back without hesitation, and Castiel can feel the flutter of his heart, see the lingering traces of fear in his eyes when they pull apart and look at each other. “We had kind of a close call,” Dean admits quietly. “How did you know?”

Castiel doesn’t want to answer that, so instead he says, “Sorry,” to Sam’s only slightly grudging, “I thought we talked about the PDA thing, guys.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean adds, “but I think we made need to violate that rule a little more.” He glances over his shoulder. “Zachariah’s still around, doing demon cleanup; I wanna see if I can actually make his eyes pop out of his head.”

“Zachariah’s here?” Sam is immediately on his feet.

“Yeah, but—you’ll love this, Cas—I think I kind of made him my bitch.”

“You made Zachariah your bitch,” Castiel restates, and even though the thrum of nervousness has not left him—he can still see the spear lying at the side of the pool, where Dean dropped it after jerking it free from Astaroth’s body—he, well. He kind of does love that.

Dean winks. “Hey, Zach!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the cavernous ceiling. And Zachariah actually comes when called, Hayyel and Micah trailing behind him.

“You got a bit of…” Dean gestures at Zachariah’s collar. “Demon…there. Yeah. Never mind.”

Zachariah’s vessel seems to tremble as he inclines his head, casts down his eyes. As he lowers himself, shaking, to his knees. “The demons have been dispatched,” he says, and if there’s a disobedient tinge to his voice, it’s being thoroughly and deliberately stomped down. “Your servant awaits his orders.”

“You want orders?” Dean sounds incredulous. “Okay, here are you orders: go screw yourself.”

Castiel can see Zachariah’s shoulders shake; Hayyel and Micah, meanwhile, look like they are seriously considering the mechanics of Dean’s request. “Dean,” Castiel says warningly.

“Yeah, all right,” Dean says. “You know what you can do?” he asks, getting in Zachariah’s personal space—Castiel definitely understands the concept now. “You can go out there,” Dean says, “and you can fight and kill all those demons who are messing with people and trying to bring on Armageddon, and then you can actually _help_ me and Sam and Cas get ready to fight Lucifer, and then we can take him _down_. Got it?”

Zachariah nods without looking up.

“Good. Now get up off the floor, you’re weirding me out.”

Castiel watches as Zachariah stands. His eyes flicker over to Castiel’s, and there’s still hate there, buried under the veneer of defeat. “Castiel,” he says, slow and deliberate. “I commend you and your service to our brother.”

“My service is to Dean,” Castiel says.

“But I service him just as often,” Dean adds brightly, and Castiel feels his hand slip beneath Castiel’s trench coat and rather showily squeeze his ass.

Sam groans. Zachariah visibly shudders, and then he visibly isn’t there, a faint smell of ozone the only thing left in his place.

“Dick,” Dean declares. He gives Castiel’s ass one last fond pat, and then, in deference to Sam, steps away.

Sam continues to frown, however. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

Dean casts a small, nervous glance Castiel’s way before bobbing his shoulders in a casual shrug. “Zachariah finally faced facts and realized how awesome I am—and what a pathetic loser he is.” He sweeps down and picks up the spear, graceful and easy, like it belongs to him. Castiel’s breath catches again. “Did you see how I rocked this thing?”

Sam reaches a hand out. “Can I see?”

“No!” Castiel steps swiftly and forcefully between them; under certain circumstances, it seems, he can still move the way he used to. “No one must touch the spear but Dean.”

Dean is not stupid; there is a dark shadow of worry in his eyes as his spear hand returns to his side. Sam is not stupid, either; “I’m definitely missing something,” he says, looking between the two of them. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Castiel takes a breath; he shakes his head. “Not now. Not here.”

He looks, as he can’t help but look, to Dean, and for a moment he almost expects the man standing next to him to sweep them away from here with a gentle brush of his hand.

But instead Dean’s grip tightens on his weapon and together, the three of them leave this place on their own human feet.

* * *

Mary is waiting for John when he gets home. She’s in the kitchen, having made far too much food simply out of a need to do something with her hands. John already looks confused, and his puzzled expression only grows when he sees the lavish meal laid out in front of them. “You—” he starts, then clearly makes the decision to go back to the first thing on his mind. “Did you plant a tree in our front yard?”

“Yes,” Mary hears herself say. “I thought—I thought the nursery could use some shade.”

“It’s an awfully big tree,” John says, and then all at once he catches up: “The nursery?”

“John,” she says, placing her hands on his shoulders, lowering him into a chair. “I have some news.”

She already knows what his reaction is going to be. They’ve been trying so hard, trying for years: planning around her cycle, coming together sweetly between the sheets—before Mary slipped out of bed and resumed planning something else. He wants so badly to be a father.

And Mary wants a family. She wants her family to stay safe, to survive.

“John,” she says, placing his palm over her stomach, still warm from another touch. “I’m pregnant.”

* * *

Castiel is being weirdly gentle with him tonight, touching him reverently, like he is something precious. Dean both likes it and doesn’t: Castiel’s love is something that he knows he’ll never tire of drinking in, but it worries him to find the angel suddenly so tentative. Almost as if Castiel is a little afraid of him.

“It’s not what you think. It’s just not,” Dean says. He rolls onto his back, coaxing Castiel to climb on top of him. He wants Castiel to hold him down, wants to feel his superior strength. “I mean…you _know_ me.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, searching Dean’s face with those endless blue eyes of his. Once again, he lays a hand on Dean’s cheek, cradling his chin.

Dean bats his hand away and pulls him down into a fierce kiss. He locks their legs and grinds against Castiel provocatively. “I’m still _me_ ,” he insists.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Castiel happily. He suckles for a moment at Dean’s pulse point, then gives his ear a playful nip, which is a bit better. Then he runs his hands down Dean’s sides, under the waistband of his jeans, and that’s a _lot_ better.

“Angels are douchebags,” Dean says. “No offense.”

Castiel jerks Dean’s jeans down his thighs. “None taken.”

“They don’t understand this. They would never lower themselves to this. _Humanity_.”

Castiel shakes his head, pushing Dean’s legs apart at the knees.

“But this is good, isn’t it, Cas?” he says, stroking his hand through Castiel’s hair as Cas lowers his head, takes Dean in his mouth. “So good…”

He wriggles and sighs as Cas moves on him, as Cas slips a finger into his body, two. “We’re gonna save the world,” he mumbles. “Keep it safe…keep it safe for this.”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel says, pushing inside him: slowly, inexorably.

“Dean,” Castiel says, looking deep into his eyes, “Dean, you’re so warm.”


End file.
